All That Comes After
by clouisewise
Summary: You didn't REALLY think that was the end, did you?
1. Chapter 1: Is this heaven?

Hello everyone! And welcome to 'I need an outlet for all my Mass Effect feels', aka 'All That Comes After'! As of right now, I have no _definite_ plans to continue this, but I do have some ideas and some drabbles written that can easily turn into other chapters. (Let's be honest, I just started another play through and will be once again overcome with feels, so expect more at some point.)

Anyways, if I do continue, expect the rating to change, characters to make some appearance, love interests to come back, and a tirade on wacky situations that I truly wish to happen.

Enjoy!

(Oh and for the sake of saying it Bioware owns literally everything included a huge amount of my income and at least half my soul.)

* * *

When you wake up, the first thing you notice is a severe lack of pain - the last thing you remember is _pain_, an abhorrent amount, down to the very fiber of your being, so the lack thereof is welcomed. But concerning. Too afraid to open your eyes, afraid of what this whole 'afterlife' is really going to be (you hope Kaiden and Mordin are there, Thane too, but your ears feel full of cotton and you can't seem to get your mouth to work, so you lay in the familiar darkness without calling out to them), you try to take stock of what you know for certain:

The reapers are gone. So are the Mass Relays, The Citadel, the geth.

And Legion. And EDI. You hope to see them here too. (Do machines go to an afterlife?, you ponder. Hopefully they do, at least _these_ two machines do - they were innocents in this, fighting to the very end to rid the universe of this threat only to succumb to the same twisted game that ended up being the only way to do so. You feel guilty, which is the first feeling you have in the afterlife. You decide you don't want to, not right now, and push it down for later.)

(You wonder, for a second, if Anderson made it too. You quickly decide that he has to have gone to somewhere better than where you ended up; he was a hero, he was your idol and from day one he believed in you. He is what legends are _really_ made of - yeah, you stopped the reapers. And the Collectors. Saren. Various other threats ranging from mild to 'the fate of the galaxy is resting on your shoulders'. But without David Anderson you would have been just another grunt, without so much as an opportunity to prove yourself that way. Everything you are and everything you had, you owe to him.)

Slowly, as you lay there wondering who and what you'll meet here (you hope, _pray_, that you ended up in a place a million kilometers away from the likes of Kai Lang and The Illusive Man - you then wonder if it is possible to kill someone again in the afterlife, and decide that an eternity of putting your gun to either of their heads over and over definitely isn't the worst way this place could turn out), a tingling starts. It's low, in your toes you think, so you wiggle them slowly without opening your eyes. The tingling intensifies, spreads like wildfire up your legs, over your hips, your chest, down your arms, then over your face. You feel it everywhere, like a pack of swarmers is flying around just under your skin, but before you can really take stock of it the tingling turns to discomfort. And then burning, red fire all over you with no indication (not that you've opened your eyes, of course) of an _actual_ fire. And then pain, white hot in contrast to the burning just a second ago - it's everywhere, blinding, intense, crushing you yet tearing you apart at the same time. A scream is ripped from your throat before you know what's happening, and even through the cotton in your ears you hear it.

As soon as the pain was there, it's gone. Breathing heavily, you welcome the numbness that was at first so terrifying. It washes over you, systematically easing the pain in the same way it came to you. (You note that, next time this happens, you are_ not _going to wiggle your toes.)

'Shepard', you say to yourself in your best Commander voice, the last inkling of pain in your throat from the scream dissipating, 'you need to open your eyes. You need to know where you are. You need to know what happened - people imagine this moment their entire lives.'

'Not me', you retort. You don't even bother to question why on earth you're allowing your first conversation in all of this to be with yourself. 'I've been too busy fighting for the past 5 years to even _consider_ what happens next.'

'Well you're here now. You might as well just do it.'

You have your tongue wrapped around a snide reply, still clinging to the notion that this darkness is safety and you've been in enough danger for one lifetime - for two, even. But you are pulled from your thoughts by a sensation, cool in contrast to the burning earlier, somewhere near what you think is your wrist (Do I even have a body here?, you think, remembering all the beliefs that peg you as some floating intangible spirit or something of the sort when you die - for comfort's sake, for being able to hug all those people you hope to meet here's sake, you hope you still have your body). It feels familiar, comforting, and you feel the corner of your mouth twitch in a weak attempt to smile at the first pleasant feeling since you woke up.

'Now or never.'

Slowly (not slowly by choice though - it turns out to be much more difficult than you imagined it to be, your eyelids feeling like 50 pound weights) you open your eyes. Everything is hazy, too hazy to make out, but you notice a lot of white. Which you think is cliche, far too cliche to accept as fact, so you painfully blink your eyes a few more times. The image clears, slowly, faint shades of blues and purples become visible. There's movement, blurs of color moving around you excitedly. And then things have shapes, shapes you recognize but can't seem to name, not just yet. By the time your vision has cleared (you still can't hear a thing, mind you), the place you are is not at all what you were expecting to find after you died. No old friends, no big greeting party, not even a big man with a billowy white beard.

Nope. It turns out that the afterlife actually just looks a lot like a hospital room.


	2. Chapter 2: I love Lamp

(My intention really was to just make this a one-shot with maybe a few semi-related drabbles but GOD I JUST HAVE SO MANY FEELS...)

* * *

The first thing you recognize, and are able to put a name to, is the lamp besides your hospital bed. It's simple, beige with a white shade, there's a small paint chip towards the base of it, and it's off – you notice that the window (the second thing your mind is able to put a name to) is open, and sunlight (the third) is streaming into the room. People are moving around you in a frenzy, doctors and nurses are walking up to you and shining lights in your eyes and asking you a million questions, but all you can seem to focus on is that damn lamp. Somewhere, deep in the back of your mind, you remember a conversation with... someone... someone loving. Whoever this person is, they make you smile and your heart skip a beat. Those feelings are all you have of them, that and the color blue. You remember talking to this person about how ducklings often imprint on the first thing they see with certainty once they are hatched.

Great, you think to yourself. Commander Shepard, Hero of the Citadel, savior of the universe from the likes of Saren, The Collectors, the Reapers, and you have imprinted onto a cheap poorly painted lamp. Perfect.

Staring at the lamp, you notice the cotton in your ears staring to dissipate just as your eyesight had returned to you. Slowly, the sounds of the room start to fill them and suddenly everything is too loud. It's making your head hurt, and after the blinding pain from earlier, you are not quite ready for any sort of pain just yet. Reluctantly, you pull your eyes away from your new best friend and turn to the woman in your face, trying to catch your attention – she's older, emerald green eyes and a bob of silver hair, and she's smiling at you like you're the absolute best thing she's ever seen. Something prompts you to smile back, and as you do so you recognize a certain familiarity to her.

"Nice to see you, Commander."

Her accent is soothing, regal, goes down like cool brandy, and it makes you smile a little broader. It hurts to smile, you realize, but that doesn't stop you. You open your mouth to speak, to say hello, who are you, where am I, what happened? (And to yell at everyone bustling around the room like they've been in captivity their entire lives until this point, to tell them to please stop, to slow down, to _shut up_.) Nothing happens when you open it, however, and you realize somehow the persistent (and no longer terrifying, at all) numbness has somehow let the tube down your throat go unnoticed. You offer the kind doctor with the loving eyes a worried look, to which she simply nods.

"Daniel", she says, and a young man you assume is Daniel walks up to her. He seems familiar as well, vaguely, but there's not enough emotion behind the recognition to lead you to think any further on it. A friend of a friend, you decide, and let it go. "I want you to help me get this tube out. Keep the sedatives on standby."

Without a word, Daniel goes around to the opposite side of you and offers you an apologetic smile before placing a hand firmly on either of your shoulders. The woman, with even more apology on her face, wraps dainty fingers around the tube just beyond your lips.

"Take as deep of a breath as you can, Commander, then cough."

Without much else to do (though you are starting to wish you could turn your head just one more time at look at that stupid lamp – if this somehow kills you, you'd like to see it one more time), you do exactly as she instructed. As you cough, shallow and pathetic in direct relation to the shaky breath you took, she pulls the tube out of your throat with as much care as you're sure she can muster. You feel the abrasive plastic scrape all the way up, burning the way your throat had just mere moments (Was it moments? Was that a dream?) before, but stifle the scream. Instead you let a single tear slide, and happily accept the straw being offered up next to your mouth in the tube's place. It hurts to swallow, at first, but the water is cooling and comforting and everything you thought death would _really_ be like, so you take another large mouthful. Daniel returns the cup to the table next to your bed, right next to your lamp, and you smile fondly at it before following Daniel with your eyes as he rounds your bed to talk to the doctor.

"Do you need anything else, Dr. Chakwas?"

Chakwas, you think, and memories and sensation wash over you in an instant. Karin. Karin Chakwas. The Alliance doctor. You remember meeting her on the SSV Normandy before hitting Eden Prime, you remember drinking expensive alcohol with her in the Med Bay on the SR2, catching her as she fell from her pod on the Collector ship. '_You are all my children_' reverberates around in your head, her accent clear as day. Suddenly the way she was looking at you makes perfect sense.

She thanks Daniel and, to your relief, clears the room of the what seems to be dozens of staff members milling about. The last doctor places a chart in her hand before leaving, which she is carefully regarding as she drags a chair to your side and all but collapses into it. When you look up at her this time, her emerald eyes are filled with tears. But she's smiling. You try to lift a hand up, to touch her, to somehow convey to her that you're okay, this will all be okay, but find it impossible to do so. Karin sees your strained attempt at movement and instead moves her own hand to cover yours. It's dulled, far away feeling at best, but you still appreciate the sentiment.

"We thought you'd never wake up, Commander."

She sounds tired, you think. And, upon further inspection, looks it as well. There are so many questions playing at the tip of your tongue that it takes you a moment to even decide where to start. Basics, you settle on.

"I'm alive?"

Your voice comes out strained, cracking, foreign even to your own ears. Karin laughs through her tears, hangs her head and shakes it.

"You're alive", she confirms before giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. You feel it, just barely through the sedatives and painkillers you are sure are coursing through your body, but for some reason it brings everything around full circle. You're alive. And you _feel_. Here in front of you is a woman that has been by your side and cared for you as if you were her own child from the very beginning, squeezing your hand, and reassuring you that yes, Commander, yes – you are _alive_. You don't realize you're crying with her until your tears reach your mouth, the saltiness surprising you at first.

"How long?", you croak, straining your neck to look past her to the window. It's sunny; there are trees green the way that only summer can make them and you even spot a bluejay fly past. Is this Earth? It looks so... peaceful. How long were you gone this time? Are another 2 years of your life gone? "How long has it been?"

Karin closes her eyes for a moment as if trying to remember, and you hold your breath. Has it been _longer_ than 2 years? You think, 'But Dr. Chakwas doesn't look a day older', and then stop yourself when you realize that you don't remember what she looked like the last time you saw her anyways. And this does nothing but panic you further.

What feels like years pass before she smiles at you and chokes out, "Just under a year, Commander."

A _year_? Not as long as you had been gone when under the Illusive Man's special reconstruction, you admit, but still a dizzying amount of time. You gulp, ignore the burn in your throat, and look down at yourself for the first time since waking up (You were afraid to, at first, afraid of the extent of the damage, but now that you know for certain you are alive, you decide to not follow in the footsteps of the Council members you grew to regret saving – ignoring a problem doesn't make it go away, after all) – there isn't much to see, honestly. Save for your right hand, the one covered protectively by Karin's own, you are a mess of casts and bandages, so many tubes and IVs that you can't keep track of where one ends and the next begins; somewhere deep down, you remember how badly you wanted to pull your fallen comrades close to you when you thought for certain you were dead, and are just thankful to have a body at all. Broken bits and all.

"We had almost given up hope", she continues. "They wanted to pull the plug weeks ago, _months_ even, but we wouldn't let them. We knew you would pull through."

When she says 'we', a tirade of images of friendly faces floods your mind and, though you can't put names or specific memories to any of them just yet, you smile. You smile because whoever the collective 'we' are, you love them. Every single one.

"I want to see them."

She raises an eyebrow at you, smiling, her hand still on yours. You feel loved, the only pain you're aware of is the slight itch in your throat, and you are happy. You don't remember 'them' just yet, not really, but if they make you feel half of the swell of your heart that being here with Karin has, you simply can not wait for them to visit you. If they can't come soon, you think, I'll track them all down.

"Who?", she says, the smile reaching her eyes. You smile with her now, ignoring the way the muscles in your face protest.

"Everyone."


	3. Chapter 3: Joker

I really love Joker, okay?

* * *

You fell asleep almost immediately after muttering the word 'everyone' at Dr. Chakwas, and she let you sleep for what you can gather was a few hours – when your eyes slowly flutter open, much less painful than the first time, the mostly empty room is cascaded in the golden light of the setting sun and the lamp next to you (_your_ lamp) has been turned on. Karin is standing at the monitors where all the tubes from your body are running and taking notes, talking softly to herself as she does so (It makes you think of Mordin, and his incessant rambling. It used to drive you crazy when talking to him, but now you wish you could hear him prattle on about the effects of something or other just one more time.).

"Where are we?", you croak softly. She jumps, and turns around quickly to face the noise, her pen held defensively as if it could do damage to an actual assailant. She's probably not used to me being awake, you think. You're not either, honestly.

She flips the notebook in her hands closed and goes to return to the chair she had pulled to your bedside earlier. She sits slowly, the exhaustion you had noticed as subtle hints earlier now as clear as day.

"Earth", she says, with the sparkle in her eye of someone who remembers all too well what it must have looked like a year ago. As upset as you are over missing yet _another_ year of your life, you're happy to have woken up in _this_ Earth, and not the one that must have existed immediately after the Reaper's destruction. "Calgary, to be exact. Most of the Alliance's offices have been moved here from Vancouver; the repairs there have been extensive, and nowhere near complete."

You nod as if you know exactly what she's talking about; last time you were in Vancouver, the Reapers had landed but the buildings were still standing. After you flew away on the Normandy, many of the faces you can't name there with you, leaving Anderson (_his_ name is sour in your mouth, and it makes you want to cry) standing amongst the wreckage on the docks, you have no idea what became of the beautiful city you called your home.

"Is everyone else here, too?"

You were afraid that she would ask you to clarify 'everyone', and are happy when she does not. The faces are there, even a few feelings and odd things like colors or scents, but no names or memories. Not yet, at least – you hope they come back soon. These people, whoever they are, they are everything to you. You _need_ to remember.

Karin raises a hand to rub her chin thoughtfully as she strains to remember exactly where everyone had fallen when everything was all said and done.

"Most of them are here. None of them got too far though, honestly, not with you in this condition. We had all decided to stay close, in case something happened."

Her eyes glaze over for just a split second, and it shines a little light on just how extensive your injuries must have been. You want to ask, want to know why you're still in casts and bandages a full year later, but decide to save it for later. There are much more important things on your mind.

"Jeff is here, actually. Just a floor below us. I haven't told anyone that you've woken yet, to be safe." A little more light is shone on your condition – the way she says this leads you to believe that you must have woken before, with much less favorable results. You're happy you don't remember _that_. "Shall I call him up?"

You tilt your head to the side, close your eyes to focus; you wrap your head around the name and try to apply it to the faces there. Nothing matches. "Jeff?"

"Joker", Karin says with a slight smile. She begins to elaborate, reminding you of his role on your crew, but you don't need it – as soon as his name is mentioned the image of a handsome man with a scruffy face, smiling, swims to the front of your mind. You remember him being funny. And sick, you remember that he was sick. And you remember that he was the pilot, the best pilot the Alliance (and, later, Cerberus) had to offer. There was a pang of something in your chest, something akin to guilt but not quite, and you aren't sure why; you shake it off, push it down with the guilt from earlier (you don't remember why you felt that, now, but you know it's similar to this guilt).

You remember that you love him. You want to see him. He is the first person, outside the medical staff – outside Dr. Chakwas, specifically – that you remember, and you want to see him.

"Call him up, doc."

After sending the message to Joker Karin props you up, carefully, so that you are sitting up slightly. She stands at your side and holds the straw of a glass of water to your lips for you (You had thought, after a few hours of being conscious once more, you would regain at least a _little _control over your limbs – you were wrong, however, and the jerky attempt to pick up the glass next to you yourself sent it flying into the wall and to it's demise on the hard floor). Karin quickly cleaned it and fetched you a fresh glass, all while rambling on rather intelligently about muscle atrophy and the effects of a coma on muscle control (you didn't understand half of it, but you smiled and nodded at her anyways). Placing the fresh glass back down on the table (just out of your reach, you note with a small smile – she knows damn well you were going to try again), the doctor excuses herself to file her official report on your apparently miraculous awakening.

No more than 10 minutes passes before you hear the distinct sound of military boots scuffling across a tile floor, accompanied by the clanging of medals. The door to your room swings open, almost violently, and is filled with none other than Jeff, more commonly known as Joker. He looks different than your memory recalls; his clean pressed uniform is littered with medals, his face clean shaven. But his eyes are smiling, and when you meet them with your own you can't help but smile weakly at him.

Without a word, he shuffles across the room and takes the seat previously occupied by the doctor (You are happy to note that, even with how poorly your memory is cooperating with you since waking, he limps the same way you remember). Joker sits, carefully, slowly. He leans forward in the chair, regarding you seriously – he looks as if he is trying to ascertain whether or not this is really happening (You don't blame him; you're still trying to figure that out yourself). His gaze is serious, focused, a look you'd only seen on his face when it's on the bridge of the Normandy, and it is honestly intimidating you (Joker, you laugh to yourself without breaking the eye contact, is actually intimidating _me_; who would have thought this day would ever come?).

Quickly, fast enough that your still adjusting brain barely picks it up, he wipes his eyes with the back of a shaky hand and leans back in the chair next to your bed. He's crying?, you think, and hope that he isn't angry with you – suddenly every memory of him and EDI on the bridge or at Purgatory floods your mind, and it makes you want to empty the contents of your stomach (if there were any, that is). The pang in your chest returns full force, and now you know why. You destroyed all synthetic life – the Reapers are gone, yes. But so is EDI.

"You have to stop dying on us, Commander."

You smile at him again, still weakly, and fail to stop your own tears from falling. You want to tell him how thankful you are for how many times he pulled your ass out of the fire – especially this last time – and for his endless humor on the bridge. For flying the Normandy like no other could, through more battles and life-or-death situations than any one ship or pilot should have to face in a lifetime. You want to commend him highly, and recommend him for every single damn medal the Alliance has to offer, though if his uniform is any indication he has already been awarded them all.

What comes out of your mouth, in place of all the thanks and praise you wanted to offer him, is a blubbery and choked "I'm so sorry Joker".

The tears still flowing, he smiles at you. And laughs – it's a sad laugh, you notice, but the familiarity of it warms your heart. He leans forward again, grabbing your one free hand with both of his firmly.

"For dying? Again? Or for killing my girlfriend?"

You wince, the guilt you felt earlier returning tenfold, and just as unwelcome as it was the first time. You want to itemize every single thing you have to be sorry for to him – this war, it took so much from every single person on your crew. You realize, as you begin to mentally list all the things you have to apologize to Joker for, that you are going to be making a lot of apologies in the coming days.

Again, your mouth belays your thoughts, the list of specific things to apologize for going out the proverbial window.

"I'm so sorry", you repeat through your tears. You say it over and over, and don't stop when he awkwardly stands and pulls you into his arms. You stay there, Joker holding your broken body close and crying just as hard into your shoulder as you are into his, for a very long time.


	4. Chapter 4: What became of us?

Joker spends a long time with you, mostly talking about what happened to the crew of the Normandy as a whole directly after you destroyed the Citadel. You learn that everyone (save for EDI and Legion, who are missed immediately upon remembering them, the thought of which wretches your soul) aboard the Normandy survived the battle. They crash-landed several systems away, on a relatively unsettled planet in the Arcturus Stream, and had to repair the Normandy manually before setting off to find the closest Mass Relay. Which, as you knew before he even said so, was nothing more than a hunk of twisted metal. The crew (he doesn't mention specific names, much your dismay) managed to get to a colony that somehow avoided the invasion and acquire the necessary fuel and resources to make their way back to the Sol System – even with their superior engines and the leaps and bounds made in FTL travel, without the Mass Relays, it took _3 months_ to get back to Earth. By the time they had returned, the Alliance had already began to work on repairing the relays, the entire crew was all set to receive the highest honors that every single Council planet had to offer, and you were barely more than a hunk of meat fighting to stay alive on a surgery table in the best hospital humanity had left standing.

He said they found your body in London, under a ton of rubble, barely alive. In fact, he said, if it wasn't for Dr. Chakwas immediately taking charge of your care upon her return to Earth, they would have pulled the plug on you the same week the crew arrived back.

The more you talk to Joker the more you remember how much you enjoyed his company – he is trustworthy and honest, and a good friend to have. You miss his beard, you think once as you see him raise a hand to rub the now smooth skin there, but facial hair is hardly what makes Joker the man he is today. You decide that he is as good of a person as any to ask the question that has been on the tip of your tongue since waking up.

"Joker", you say slowly, carefully considering your words so you don't come off completely insane. "I'm having some... trouble... remembering everyone."

"Trouble?", he questions. He cocks an eyebrow at you, obviously amused.

"It's just... I see everyone's face in my head, but I can't seem to put together who they belong to."

He laughs, a hearty laugh accompanied with a broad smile; it makes you feel a little silly for being so afraid to ask him – or Karin, for that matter – earlier.

"Oh how they mighty have fallen." You rolls your eyes at him. "I'm kidding, Commander. What can I do to help?"

"Can we just, like... go through the list? Usually when you say the name it hits me – when Dr. Chakwas said Jeff was coming, I didn't know who she was talking about though. It wasn't until she said Joker that it hit me. So, I don't know. Start at the beginning?"

Joker leans back again, bringing a hang up to run his (smooth) chin as he thinks about where to start. He starts, like you had suggested, at the beginning, with the crew that flew to Eden Prime with you back on the SSV Normandy.

Kaiden Alekno, who you by no means had forgotten, the gifted human biotic who gave his life for the cause on Virmire. (You remember him being an integral soldier and a loyal companion, and are sad that he didn't get the chance to see how everything turned out.) And Ashley Williams... _Ashley_. You remember Ashley, but it's fragmented. She smells like brown sugar, she loves the color purple, and you remember thinking she was beautiful (in the way that you would think a younger sister is beautiful – a strange combination of admiration and jealousy). The terms of your friendship are blurry, unclear, and for every single ounce of love you feel for her, you feel the same in anger. You shake thoughts of Ashley Williams away, their complexity too much for your tired brain to process right now. Joker moves right along at the nod of your head, thankfully. He talks about Garrus Vakarian, the turian ex-CSEC officer that came to be your best friend (you remember Garrus surprisingly vividly, and out of the people mentioned by Joker so far, you are most excited to see him). He talks about a few others on your crew, important people like Urdnot Wrex, Tali'Zorah, Liara T'Soni...

_Liara_.

You stop him when he goes to move on from Liara.

"Wait", you say, interrupting the beginnings of a story about a kind man you remember named Adams, "Liara. Tell me more about Liara."

"Of _course_ you want to hear more about her", he laughs. "She's an asari archeologist. You picked her up on Therum when we were looking for information on Saren – her mom lost her mind and was following him around like a puppy, so we went to see if she knew anything. Turns out she's a genius that can use a gun, who would have thought, so she came with us."

"Do you... um...", you trail off, not sure how to continue without sounding insane _and _creepy. "Do you have a picture?"

He considers, eventually pulling up his omnitool. He taps away at it as you sit by impatiently, craning your neck to try to see what he's pulling up – he chuckles and jerks away every time you get close, however, leaving you to pout as he searches for whatever it is he's looking for.

He _finally _extends his arm to you so you can see – pulled up on his omnitool is a picture of you and the absolute most beautiful asari you have ever seen, leaning on the guard rail over the galaxy map on the new Normandy. You're both happy, smiling broadly, her pointing excitedly to something on the map and you looking at her like she's the only person on a ship filled with staff.

"Traynor took that", Joker says (you remember Traynor, too, vividly – you rather enjoyed her company, actually, and you remember losing many games of chess to her in your cabin).

"I love her", you whisper, eyes transfixed on the photo, before you even notice the words tumbling from your lips.

"Traynor?", Joker says, a smile on his face and his eyebrows in his hairline. "Don't tell _Liara_ that."

You shake your head and look up at him with your own eyebrow raised.

"No...", you drag out, "Liara."

"Well, _yeah_. You've been together, and annoyingly happy, for a while now. Hey, it's kind of weird that you remembered me almost instantly but not Liara–"

"Stop, Joker."

"I'm just saying, Commander, maybe it's a sign. Me and you shoul–"

You use your good arm to shove his shoulder weakly, to which he mocks a serious injury and threatens to start disconnecting various tubes from your body.

After laughing, the two of you fall into a not entirely unpleasant silence.

The two of you are quite for a very long time, during which you are sure you dozed off several times and always woke to find Joker still there, he sighed heavily and leaned his head forward to rest on the guard rail of the bed. You use every last bit of your strength to raise your hand and awkwardly pat his head in an attempt to do something at least mildly reassuring.

"I _hated _you", he says, breaking the comfortable silence you had fallen in. When you don't say anything, he continues. "I hated you for _months_ because of what you did – I mean, destroying all synthetic life? The Reapers were gone, yeah, and I was over the moon about that. But..."

He trails off, and you hang your head.

"But, EDI", you finish for him.

"Yeah. EDI."

You wrack your still acclimating brain for something you could say to him, but you can't think of anything that will make what happened make sense to him the way it does to you. You settle on the facts – the truth, though often painful, is usually the only way to get people to take you seriously. (Well, you say that now, but look at how long it took the Council to be even a little concerned about the Reapers when you were there yelling at them about it for three years – you suppose that sometimes even the truth doesn't matter, and that thought makes you a little sad.)

"I had other options", you begin. He immediately raises his head and looks at you with his mouth agape – you can see the confusion etched onto his face, you can see the gears in his mind working to think of what the other options must have been to lead you to settle on the one you did. You half expect him to begin to argue, but he doesn't say anything. Your throat is sore, and simply talking seems to strain your lungs in a way you're not at all used to yet, but you press on.

"The catalyst... it gave me other options. I could have controlled them."

Joker deflates a little.

"Like the Illusive Man wanted."

"Or", you continue with a tight nod in his direction, "I could have become one with them. I could have become one with _all_ synthetic life. Become _one_ with the Reapers."

He deflates even further, falling back roughly against the chair, and hangs his head. Silence once again settles over both of you, but it isn't comfortable like it was the first time – this silence is strained, Joker trying to make sense of everything and you doing what you could with what little grasp you had on your ability to explain it to him. When he finally speaks, the tears are falling all over again – your heart breaks at the sight.

"I didn't say goodbye", he says, barely above a whisper. "We took off out of Earth's atmosphere with EDI still down there and I thought, Shepard can do this. Shepard _will _do this. And we'll pick her and EDI and everyone else up in the Normandy and high tail it out of here when it's all said and done. Ashley and Liara had to basically _force_ me out of the Sol System."

You wonder how long Joker sat just outside the Earth's atmosphere, watching all of the other ships leave the Sol System in a frenzy, waiting for you to call for the shuttle and come get you. You wonder what it was like on the bridge, Joker with Ashley and Liara (God, Liara... you want to see her so badly all of the sudden – you're sure she's been here to visit, knowing her she visited more often than anyone else, but _you_ haven't seen _her_ yet. And you desperately need to see her) all realizing that the call wasn't going to come. That you didn't make it. That you weren't coming back.

"But you did it, Shepard. You did. You did what everyone thought was impossible. More than once."

The muscles in your face strain and pull, the pain tingling underneath the dull buzz of the painkillers beginning to surface, but you ignore it to offer him a strained and tired (but genuine, none the less) smile.

"I wish there was another way, Joker."

He nods.

"Me too."

Joker stayed a little longer, until Dr. Chakwas wandered back in to administer your next (much needed) dose of painkillers. As soon as she exited, he pat your hand before standing slowly. As if for old time's sake, he saluted you – you were too tired to laugh, though you wanted to, so you offered him an eye roll instead.

"Damn happy to have you back with us, Commander. Let me know if you need anything."

"Actually, Joker", you say as he starts to make his way towards the door, "could you do me a favor?"

He spins around immediately. "Absolutely. What's up?"

"Message everyone. Liara, first. But... everyone. Tell them I'm awake. Dr. Chakwas said she was going to wait, but... I don't _want_ to wait. I want to see them."

Joker smiles, still odd to you without the familiar facial hair but definitely the same smile you remember, and immediately raises his omnitool to type up what you can only assume is the message to your crew.

"Get some sleep. And expect a lot of visitors tomorrow, Commander."


	5. Chapter 5: Catching Up

This chapter was, for some reason,_ impossibly_ hard for me to write. I think it's just because I already have the next few mostly written/at least planned out and I had to make this transitional chapter and BLAH~.

Anyways, here it is! Enjoy. :)

* * *

Joker, contrary to his name, was _not _kidding _at all _when he said you should be expecting a lot of visitors - you are pulled slowly from your restless sleep (you'd been asleep for a _year_, after all - sleeping even more just made you feel like you were wasting time that would be much better spent trying to get out of this damn bed) by small excited whispers that seemed to be filling every space in your room. You tried to ignore them at first, but every time you adjusted to get comfortable the whispers and murmurs increased tenfold. Finally deciding it was impossible, you open your eyes and are met with a once-empty room now filled with brightly colored flowers, balloons, even a small fish tank at the far end, complete with a small group of very happy people standing at the foot of your bed.

As your brain catches up with you, the faces in the room become clearer - you're thankful for your talk with Joker the previous day. Without it, the room full of smiling friends would be a room filled with strangers. You recognize Tali-Zorah first – she's bouncing excitedly on the balls of her feet, her hands wringing together excitedly. She let's out a a stifled giggle when your eyes meet hers, then raises her hands to clasp over where you assure her mouth is under her envirosuit mask. Garrus is there too, a small box in his hands and a twinkle in his eyes. (You're so happy to see him, you realize – not that you aren't happy to see Tali, because you certainly are, but something about Garrus' smile is so comforting to you, and comfort is something you have been short on the past few days.) There's two women there that you don't recognize right away – one is tall and beautiful, with a head of luscious dark hair and crystal blue eyes. Her outfit seems painted on, leaving not a single thing to your imagination (not that you can imagine anything better than what she's got on display – she's _gorgeous_, annoyingly so, and the half-smile she's pulling leads you to believe that she probably knows it). The other woman is not quite as tall, but just as beautiful, though it a completely different way – what is visible of her body is covered in tattoos, even the sides of her head where the hair has been shaved. What hair she does have is pulled back into a tight ponytail, her brown eyes are twinkling, and she's smiling (though the memories aren't coming back right away, some part of you feels as if seeing her smiling isn't something you're used to).

You realize far too late that you've spent who knows how long just staring at everyone with your mouth open. They probably think you're brain dead.

"Hi", you croak out weakly, your voice cracking as you do so. They all seem to let out a breath you didn't even know they were holding, as if hearing your voice (no matter how terrible it sounds) was the final confirmation that yes, you're here. Yes, you're alive. You're _not_ brain dead. You're not going anywhere this time.

We won.

_You_ won.

"It's about time, Shepard", Garrus says with a laugh (and is that a tear you see him desperately trying to blink away?), "we were beginning to think you'd just sleep through all the hard work."

The tattooed woman takes a step forward and playfully punches you calf (you're thankful for the painkillers, because she's looks strong not at all in proportion to her tiny stature). "Yeah, Shepard. Here we are all busting our asses to get this place back to fucking _livable_ and you're taking a nap."

"_Jack_", the beautiful woman scolds, "it's not as if Shepard really needs to do anything more. She's done enough."

Jack. At first you just remember snippets of emotion – anger, spite, fear. You're not sure if the emotions are her's or yours, but the memory of them is strong._ Very_ strong. And then those emotions transform – to respect, mostly. And then you remember Jack, the person – the beautiful and dangerous biotic that was, at first, uncontrollable. She was ruthless and rebellious; you practically refused to take her out on missions with you for the longest time, the risk of her losing control too prevalent to be ignored. But after the destruction of Pragia... Jack changed. She was just as intense, just as dangerous, but focused. You knew that you could trust her, and in time you learned just how right you were to place that trust in her. She changed even more, for the better, after your attack on the Collector base, when the Alliance put her in a teaching position at Grissom Academy. You were so shocked – everyone was – to find out that Jack, potty mouth, ex-convict, 'psychotic biotic' Jack, was a _teacher_. It suit her though. The look, the attitude, the Alliance, the kids? It _all_ suit her. She looks so happy, you notice, and now realize why her smile was so foreign to you before – you can't recall ever really seeing her smile like that before. Or, if you're honest with yourself, ever. It's nice. _It_ suits her.

"Trust me, Jack", you croak out again with a weak smile in her direction, "I would rather be mindlessly hammering away than wasting time in this stupid bed."

"The drugs are nice though, yeah?"

You smile at her again, roll your eyes at her wink. The beautiful woman playfully shoves her, and your three other visitors chuckle.

"I'm definitely not complaining."

"Who would?", the beautiful woman says. Her voice is like salt water spray on a hot beach, her accent rich (Is that Australian?, you wonder), her eyes a sparkling blue pool. Her air of confidence and the smirk pulling at her lips... it's all familiar, so familiar, but you just can't place it yet. "Though I'm sure they have you sufficiently doped up here, Shepard, how are you feeling? You've had quite the year."

You shrug your shoulders, wiggle your toes, your fingers, try (and fail) to stretch your legs. Everything seems to be working at least, you think, and that's enough. You have all of your (more or less) original parts and, aside from the memory loss, you don't feel much different. More tired, maybe. Worried. A little confused. But, okay. Maybe even good. But definitely _at least_ okay.

"I'm okay", you settle on.

Jack and the other woman don't stay much longer; Jack has to attend to some Alliance matters (the thought of which makes you chuckle – who would've thought?) and the beautiful stranger seemed to be more or less attached to her hip. They both hug you goodbye, Jack demanding that the two of you go out for a drink as soon as you're able (which you happily agree to – going out, getting dressed up, grabbing a drink with friends? It all sounds normal, and normal is exactly what you're craving right now), and leave you in the warm company of Garrus and Tali. The three of you are silent for some time, you wracking your brain for every memory you have of yourself with the two of them and smiling at every single one as they stand at the foot of your hospital bed and smile back at you (maybe for the same reasons). You only notice how silent the room has been for who knows how long when Garrus awkwardly coughs into his hand, pulling you from the memories you are happy to have back.

"I'm sorry", you shake your head to clear your thoughts. "I'm staring."

"It's okay", Garrus says. "We're staring too."

"We just never thought we'd see you again, Shepard. At least not... well...", Tali drags the sentence off, looking away as if the words she is searching for will appear on the far wall. When they don't she just turns back to you and shrugs helplessly.

"Alive?", you finish for her.

Tali comes around the side of your bed and falls on you in a tight hug in response – you weakly bring your arms up to return the embrace, and smile softly into her shoulder. She smells like disinfectant, and (strangely enough) chocolate, but she's warm and love is radiating from her and it just makes you hold her a little closer to you. She slowly pulls away, and you smile even broader at her.

"I'm sorry, Shepard. I have to get back to the comm room and make some calls to the Flotilla... I'll come back tomorrow?"

"That sounds good, Tali. I'll be here."

She laughs, and it's happy and heartwarming. You laugh, too.

"As if I could go anywhere anyways, right?"

Garrus walks her to the door, and closes it behind her before making his way to the chair at your bedside. He takes a seat, and grabs one of your hands in his own. The skin is rough, distinct calluses from holding a gun rub against the now-soft skin of your own hand.

"I knew you'd make your way back to us, Shepard. You're too damn stubborn to let the Reapers put you down."

"Oh, they put me down", you say as you squeeze his hand weakly in yours, relishing in the roughness of the calluses that you miss on your own hands, "but they couldn't_ keep_ me down. I've got to keep you hoodlums in line."

"I don't know, I think it's _us_ that keep _you_ in line sometimes. Without Liara and I, who knows where'd you'd be – probably in jail for punching reporters or hacking every terminal in sight."

"Probably just _dead_", you smile up at him. "How _is_ Liara? I mean, she isn't here... I guess... I mean, is everything okay? Is she okay?"

"Oh she's fine. Doing some Broker work in the Terminus with Ashley right now, actually. I sent her a message to let her know you're awake...", he trails off, knits his eyebrows together. "She hasn't read it yet. But she's probably just busy; you know Liara. She can't sit still for more than 5 minutes without unearthing _something_, whether it be a ruin somewhere or some trouble."

You both laugh at all the fond memories of all the trouble Liara happened to fall into.

"Yeah. That sounds like her. Well... I hope she makes her way here soon."

"She will." He squeezes your hand again, a little harder than last time. "You know as soon as she finds out you're awake, she'll drop everything to be here. She was here every single day for _months_; it took forever for Dr. Chakwas to convince her that time was the only thing that was going to wake your lazy ass up. If it wasn't for Ashley practically dragging her, she wouldn't have even followed this lead to the Terminus. She'll be back soon."

Garrus tells you what he's been up to since the war – he's back at C-SEC, he tells you, though he makes it very clear that once you are up and able again, he would drop everything to join you on the Normandy once more. The two of you then talk about your plans once you're out of this hospital room – you're unsure, you tell him, but being landlocked isn't in the plans at all. You tell him that you hope you'll be fully reinstated in the Alliance and get the Normandy back – you'd be happy to do just about _anything_ if it meant you could have your ship and your crew back. He tells you how _Admiral_ Tali'Zorah and him are seeing each other now, as if you didn't remember practically catching them on the Normandy a few times, and he is happy to say that the two of them are currently enjoying a semi-serious and semi-long distance relationship now; with her needing to be on the Flotilla more than half the time, it makes spending time together a little taxing. But all the more worth it. You're happy for him, you say more than once, to which is always just smiles.

"Can I ask you something, Garrus?", you ask when he returns from fetching himself a glass of water.

"Of course, Shepard. What's up?"

"The woman with Jack...", you trail off, gesturing your hands a little wildly to express some of your frustration. He just stares at you, waiting for you to continue. "I've been having some trouble... _remembering_. I know I know her. But, how? Who is she?"

"Miranda? You don't remember _Miranda_? Thank the goddess you didn't tell her, Jack would've had a _field day_ with that."

"Miranda...?", you ask to no one in particular, rolling the name around in your mouth until the memory finally hits you like a wall of bricks. The genetically engineered – and for all intents and purposes – _perfect_ human biotic with the stone-cold professionalism and attitude that you would expect from an ex-Alliance operative, not that she was one. The ex-Cerberus XO and you did not always get along; in fact you would go as far to say that she actively _loathed_ you when the two of you first met. And you didn't feel much warmer towards her. But throughout your mission to stop the Collectors, the two of you became surprisingly close. Her dedication and valor lead her to earning your utmost respect, as yours did to earning hers. In the days immediately after destroying the Collector base but preceding you turning yourself over to the Alliance, Miranda used her resources to ensure that the crew as a whole would be fed and taken care of, even though your own resources and favors were running out. Fast. It was then, on the late nights in your cabin drinking cheap wine with her and going over mounds of paperwork, that you grew to understand, and even care for, the powerful woman that at first you could barely stand. "_Miranda_! Oh my _god_."

"Yeah", Garrus chuckles, shaking his head, "I know. Honestly I thought you were giving her the cold shoulder because you somehow found out about her and Jack. It's even funnier that you just _forgot _her."

You throw him a scolding look.

"I won't tell her. I swear. She'd probably beat me up anyway – it's not like she could do anything to you. It's rude to hit a cripple."

A snarky reply had wrapped it's way around your tongue, ready to put poor old Garrus Vakarian to shame, when it suddenly hit you that you had _no_ idea what Garrus was talking about when he said 'Miranda _and Jack_'.

"Wait", you say, shaking your head, swallowing down your perfect reply and hoping for a chance to use it later, "what _about_ Miranda and Jack? You can't mean..."

"Oh. I _mean_."

Soon after the two of you finally stopped laughing, both of your sides aching from the seemingly never ending laugh you were sharing at your poor friends' expense, he regrettably said that he had to make his way to Bailey's office and start his shift for the day. The two of you shared a tight heartfelt embrace before he left, both of you dissolving into sobbing messes before he finally excused himself.

"Hey Shepard", he poked his head back in the door, still wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, "don't forget to open that present. It's the least I could do."

Exhausted from the day's events, you pull the box onto your lap from the small table besides your bed and use the last of your strength to tear the brightly colored wrapping paper off of it. Inside the box was a brand new datapad, and a small note.

_Shepard:_

_Chakwas said it'll be a while before they can hook you up with an omnitool. But I figured you should start weeding through the thousands of messages you're sure to have. Extranet is already hooked up. Good luck._

_- Garrus_

_ps Liara's information is already saved. Figured you would want to send her a message before you start reading all that spam. And there's a lot of it. I forwarded all mine to you._

You smile to yourself as you put the note carefully back on the table and hold the datapad up to turn it on.

Garrus, _you asshole_, you think to yourself. Thank you.


	6. Chapter 6: The Letter

Hey Liara. It's me.

It's been a while since I've checked my messages and I couldn't seem to remember any of my login information, so I just made a new account. I'm sure my old one has been hacked and ruined by now anyways; who knows what kinds of messages have been coming out of there, right? But it's really me.

I'm awake.

I'm here in Calgary now. Dr. Chakwas said I've been out for almost a year now. But hey, that's half the amount of time of my average near-death recovery time, right? At least that's something!

I'm sorry I keep disappearing on you, Liara.

Everyone said you've been busy. They said Ash works for you now, too. And that you two have been on some expedition out in the Terminus for a few months. That's exciting, but I hope you're being safe. I know you don't need me to take care of you, Liara, but I worry about you. And Ashley, too; I hope you guys are taking good care of each other.

Anyways, I hope everything has been going well out there, with whatever it is you're doing. 'Work' related things, I imagine. Garrus said he's been trying to reach you but hasn't had any luck - here's hoping I get lucky and you don't just flag this as spam. I would like to see you soon, Liara. As soon as possible.

I miss you so much.

Every day I wake up and I get a little stronger - Dr. Michele said I only have a few more minor surgeries before I can start to walk again. I keep pestering her about speeding things along; when you come to visit I want to take you on a walk. There's a garden on the grounds here that has these big beautiful yellow flowers I think you'd really like.

Other than that I'm mostly healed up now. I'm not sure what I look like under all these bandages, though. I'm not sure I want to. Hopefully you'll take just long enough for me to look a little less like something from a Mary Shelley novel.

I can't wait to see you. So hurry back. And please, be safe. I'll kick the blue off your ass if you let something happen to yourself.

I love you, Liara.

- Shepard

ps Do you think Shep-v-Reapers was a stupid username? Garrus thought it would be funny but now I'm not so sure. It seems like CommanderShepard, CommShep, JaneShep, _and_ ShepLovesLiara were _all_ taken – what the hell?

pps Miranda and Jack, huh? I owe Kasumi _a lot_ of credits. Hopefully the Alliance has some serious back-pay stashed away for me somewhere.

ppps I know you probably already know this, or at least don't need any help finding it out, but I'm at the David Anderson Memorial Hospital in Calgary, 5th floor, room 511. Please hurry.


	7. Chapter 7: Mother May I

Oh mama Shep... I just have_ so_ many headcanons that I could write an entire store about you.

* * *

Your mother comes the next day. She walks through the door of your room and every single doctor and nurse immediately turn to salute her before making a hasty exit – you had no idea she was coming (though you figured it wouldn't be long before she made her way here, no matter what she was up to these days), but every other person in the room seemed to have known. (That is probably why they spent the past 20 minutes fussing over the flowers, you rationalize, and it _definitely_ explains the extra guards in the hallway.) With the cool mask of confidence and perseverance you have come to expect from the long-time Alliance woman, she shuts the door behind the last man, then turns to face you. And then, as unexpected as it possibly could have been, she burst into tears.

Your mother, Admiral Hannah Shepard, a hardened war hero not entirely unlike yourself, is sobbing as she makes her way to your bed on shaky legs and then half collapses on top of you. You've never seen your mother cry, you realize, and it's a strange thing to see – even now, into your 30s, having saved the galaxy and even dying _twice_, you feel like the same little girl holding your mom's hand on the deck of the frigate your parents both served on as they ejected your father's coffin out into space. She didn't cry then, you remember, at least not in front of you.

It makes it all the more foreign now.

As she sobs into your lap, you strain to wiggle your arm out from under the blanket so you can place it on her back – you begin to rub circles between her shoulder blades, the same she used to do for you when you were a child, but find that your motor skills aren't quite up to par yet. The circles are jerky and uneven, the motion of them making your shoulder sore after just a few seconds, so you decide on simply letting it rest there.

"It's okay, mom", you say in place of the circles. "I'm okay."

You sit in each others company for a long time, chatting idly about generally unimportant things. That is until she mentions that she had recently had lunch with none other than Matriarch Aethyta – Liara's father.

"Wait", you stop her in the middle of a story about the poor confused turian waiter that was serving them. "You did _what_?"

She shrugs her shoulder as if it isn't at all strange that her and your girlfriend's (are you and Liara still using that qualifier?, you wonder) father have been apparently meeting up and having lunch together for the past 6 months.

"I had lunch with Aethyta. We have lunch_ every _Sunday, as long as work doesn't pull me away. She was asking about you, said she hadn't been by to visit in a while – oh, and she said Liara was away on business. What a shame, too; I'm sure it's going to kill her that she wasn't here with you."

You smile sadly up at her. "I wish she was."

"So", your mother drags out as she takes your hand and offers it a soft squeeze, "when are you two going to get married?"

"_Mom_!"

"What! Aethyta and I are proud, and _patient_, but now that you're well we would just _love_ to have some beautiful blue granddaughters."

"Seriously, mom?", you groan out at her, pulling yours hand out of her grasp and using it to cover your red burning cheeks, and using the other to gesture down to your still not-at-all working extremities. "You do realize I was in a _coma_ for a year, right? I haven't even _seen_ Liara since I woke up _3 days ago_, let alone proposed and started... uh... mating..."

You groan again, and use your now-free hand to pull the pillow out from behind you and use to cover your face. Your mother laughs and takes it from you, placing it just out of your reach. She catches your gaze (though you tried _very_ hard to look away) and smiles down at you in that way that only your mother could as she humiliates you in your own hospital room.

"Well, Jane, I _am_ getting old. I'd like to hear the pitter patter of your beautiful daughters before I reach _100_."

"Are we _seriously_ having this conversation right now?"

You are saved by the proverbial bell when her her omnitool dings. She ignores it at first, slamming down on the message that pops up so that it will stop alerting her (And so that she can continue to grill you about your hypothetical children – what will you name them? How many do you want? Will you stay on Earth to raise them? Or will you move to Thessia?) , but after the third or fourth message that pops up she offers you an apologetic glance and answers it. The image a confused looking young man pops up, his beret skewed and his nose bloodied, and your mother rolls her eyes at him before getting up to field the seemingly urgent message.

You aren't listening too closely (not that you'd be able to – she's across the room by now and your hearing is still far from perfect), but you recognize the look on her face and the way her eyes are drilling straight through the young man she's talking to – she's giving orders. She's doing her job. Everyone on the image before her seems frantic, panicking, running around like they've never been inside a frigate before, and your mother is the picture of cool calm. This is what she does; this is what she_ loves_ to do. For a moment, you decide to forgive her for her completely intentional embarrassment of her only daughter.

_This_ is my mother, you think. _Admiral_ Shepard. In that moment you are filled with pride for how far your mother has come - but it also stirs something else in you. Something ingrained and habitual - once you really acknowledge the fact that your mother is an _Admiral_, of all things, your decades in the Alliance take over your brain and it becomes harder to see her as _just_ your mother. She ends her distress call, seemingly unconcerned about whatever it is that was important enough to repeatedly message her, and returns to her seat next to your bed. She begins to talk about your crew, your friends, and ask you questions about how their visits had been so far, but you find it hard to focus. You see the stripes on her shoulders a more clearly, and the way the sunlight catches the Silver Star hanging delicately off of her uniform, almost lost in the tirade of other medals and accolades; you sit up as straight as you are able, call her ma'am, and even let a "yes, Admiral" slip out of your lips as if it was the most natural thing in the world (honestly, you'll think later, it's the most natural-feeling thing you've encountered since waking up here).

She stops, in the middle of asking if Liara has said anything to you about children (I haven't _seen_ her, you remind her more than once, not that it deters her; you purposely fail to mention that once, not too long ago, the two of you talked about it... but the end of the life as we know it can do crazy things to what people say), and regards you with an eyebrow raised.

"Jane", she says with a shake of her head, making you feel small and fragile, standing next to your father's coffin all over again, "you don't need to call me Admiral. Or ma'am. _Mom_ will do just fine. Or maybe grandma, but we'll save _that_ for later."

She smiles at you, the way only your mother could smile, so full of love and respect and understanding, and it's hard for you to not agree. But my damn Alliance training, you think.

"But mom - _Admiral _Shepard. You earned this. You worked your ass off for half a _century_ to get it." She shakes her head at you again, a soft laugh escaping her lips. "I'm serious, mom. I'm proud of you. You should be, too."

She sits up a little straighter at this, a stern look falling over her – you notice, not for the first time, that you are so blessed to look so much like your mother. You don't remember your father much, but if pictures are anything to go by he was a moderately attractive man, with thick blond hair and a square jaw. Your mother, though, even with her dark red hair losing it's battle to the gray and her features tired, is absolutely beautiful – you're thankful to have gotten her nose, her freckles, her green eyes, the color of her hair. You try to remember to make a mental note to someday thank her for her good looks (among all of the millions of other things she has done for or passed down to you).

"_Jane_", she says more seriously this time, pulling you from my thoughts, "my achievements always meant little to me, even _less_ after your disappearance 3 years ago – I joined the Alliance because it was the right thing to do for myself at the time. And I stayed because, after your father died, it was the right thing to do for _you_. I turned down Hackett's promotion because the chances of finding you without my own ship or command would have been nonexistent, and hardly worth a little star. And when the Reapers hit, I had to practically tell the poor old man off to get him to stop asking me to accept it. The one thing I have to be proud of is _you_._ My_ daughter, Hero of the Citadel._ My_ daughter stopped the Collector attacks. _My _daughter saved the galaxy. And _my_ daughter lived."

She stands then, slowly, wiping her cheeks with the back of the hand that isn't holding onto yours as if the loss of contact would cause you to disappear for good this time. You sit up again, and she bends down to wrap you in a tight embrace – she smells like chamomile, just like you remember, and it makes you bury your face just a little further into her chest. You're crying too by now, the hot tears a stark contrast to the cool medals that your cheek is pressed against.

"_Everyone_ is proud of you, Commander Shepard."


	8. Chapter 8: Plus 7 Renegade

*listens to The Cranberries and word dumps this entire chapter in 20 minutes*

* * *

When they found what they could only assume was your body (from what you gather, without your dog tags, they would have never been able to identify you), they immediately had you flown to the David Anderson Memorial Hospital, which was then known as the Foothills Medical Centre, where you are currently receiving the absolute best care that Council space has to offer - you're a _hero_, Garrus keeps reminding you when you complain about the waiting on hand and foot approach to care the staff has taken with you. (It's still hard for you the wrap your head around, even now - a _hero_?, you find yourself wondering quite often, but I'm just a soldier... I only ever did what I had to do). Hero or not, however, you have the absolute best and most qualified team of doctors in charge of your care;

Dr. Chakwas has stolen the privilege of being your primary care physician, about which you of course have no complaints. She is kinder and of course more familiar than any of the other doctors, and you have to say that you enjoy that half of your visits tend to stray from the purely medical. She even promises to bring in some brandy when you're doing better, which you hope will be soon (because, _god_, a nice cool glass of brandy would just do wonders for you right now). And then there's Dr. Timothy, a large man with a thick southern accent that insists on calling you "_honey_" and is almost always touching you; he's your plastic surgeon, you learn, and if the amount of time he spends in your room is _at all_ related to how much time he spent putting you back together, you're happy that your request to have all mirrors banned from your room has been heeded thus far. Dr. Cordous, a wonderful salarian who you discover studied under your good friend Mordin when he was in the Salarian Special Tasks Group (not that you would have ever guessed that; Dr. Cordous speaks slow and measured, and the sight of blood makes him quite uncomfortable – he couldn't be more opposite than Mordin), has been put in charge of your mental health - he comes in once a day (a quarter of as many times as the rest of your hoard of doctors stick their heads in your room) and chats to you about your feelings. You had asked him, once, if one Felicia Hannigan (known better to you as your ex-Cerberus yeoman, Kelly Chambers) was anywhere near Calgary and could be called up instead; he was incredibly offended (which was not your intention, you told him several times), but says he'll see what he can do. (He never brings it up again, and you're far too embarrassed to ask.) Your endocrinologist is a surprisingly warm female turian named Illa Chellick; she doesn't talk much, much to your chagrin, she _always_ smells like fresh cut roses, and she treats you like you are made of glass (which, for all you know at this point, you are). The last of your core medical team is the lovely Dr. Chloe Michel, the French physician that used to work in the Wards on the Citadel, then later at Huerta Memorial. She's your orthopedic surgeon, as well as your physical therapist - basically, every time she gets anywhere near your room (you can always smell her distinct perfume, and hear the clicking of her signature heels on the tile bouncing off the walls), she gets an ear-full of pleas and bargains in an attempt to convince her that you're ready to walk – if you could use them, you are sure you'd be on your knees begging every time.

"It's hardly been a week since you've woken up", she reminds you the last time she made the mistake of walking by your door. Her voice is almost airy and threaded with the smile that is always pulling at her lips, and even when she is doing little more than shooting you down it makes you think of sunflowers and the one time you and your mother traveled to Lille, and you find it difficult to bite back your own grin.

"I am sorry, Commander", you note that she truly _does_ sound sorry, which makes it a little easier to hide your disappointment, "but it isn't time yet. One more surgery, and then we'll see, okay?"

(You swallowed down your argument and mumbled an agreement to her, but only because you saw Garrus and Tali standing idly by in the door way with your smuggled in lunch from the burger place down the street from the hospital – Karin had threatened to pull your visitation hours for a _week_ if she caught you with such unhealthy dining choices again, which was clearly not an option.)

Needless to say, you have_ a lot_ of doctors. And usually, their constant poking and prodding and arguing with you does little more than make your eyebrow twitch or ignite just the_ faintest_ inkling of a headache. But, on this particular day, you couldn't seem to to keep your usually controlled temper in check; your legs ached, you head hurt, and you _still _hadn't heard from Liara (which was probably the most distressing thing of all). Dr. Timothy had come in and stayed even longer than usual, spending an obscene amount of time examining your face. After one particularly _painful _minute of his hand on your chin and his eyes darting to every inch of skin he could see (and several inches he _couldn't_ and _won't ever_ see), you loudly cleared your throat.

"I'm sorry, honey", you cringe as he drags the word out, "just checkin' on your facial scars. We did a whole heap of work to keep that face pretty, and I got to make sure it stays that way."

You fail to suppress the groan that escapes, to which Dr. Timothy chuckles and leans forward again to rub his large rough thumb over your cheek. You instantly become uncomfortable as his touch lingers on a particularly sore spot just below your left eye, and decide to shift away from him. You put a few extra inches of distance between the two of you, but he doesn't take his hand away from your face.

"Is that all?", you say in the most polite voice you can muster, catching his eyes with your own. "I'm getting a little tired, and I would like you to leave now."

His jaw visibly clenches as he drops his hand from your face; you take careful notice of the way he narrows his eyes at you and, as if by instinct, you take a quick glance around your immediate surroundings for something to defend yourself with if he is for seem reason incredibly unhappy with his previously comatose patient's attitude (you realize that your only reasonable options are the lamp, which you refuse to sacrifice, and the vintage hardback copy of Machiavelli's _The Prince _that your mother had sent over – it's thick, and _heavy_, and you decide that it would do as a make-shift bludgeoning weapon should the occasion arise). After several strained seconds he rights himself, much to your relief.

"You should be more_ thankful_ to the man that kept you pretty, darlin'. Where would you be without face pretty face of yours anyways?"

"_Excuse me_?", you breathe out, incredulous, heat rushing to your cheeks, "I'm almost positive that I didn't save the _galaxy_ with my good looks."

"Well how do you think you _got _there? This is the _Systems Alliance_ we're talking about, best damn soldiers in the galaxy – without a good man behind you, you would have been little more than just another foot soldier." He leans a little forward and winks. "And I think we both know what I mean by '_behind_' you."

The man in front of you _daring_ to mock and attack your honor, your _success, _after every thing you had given up for him to even be alive right now, is lucky that you can't physically get out of the bed and hurt him the way that you _want_ to. He is unlucky, however, that he allowed himself to be comfortable enough in your presence to not take a preemptive step away from your bed – you use your good (okay, maybe not _good_, but _better_) arm to swing out quickly and catch him in the groin before he has time to defend himself. He falls forward after letting out a soft squeak, and you let him suffer for a few seconds on the floor before hitting the 'call nurse' button. When the nurse walks into your room barely a minute later (she's a young mousy woman of maybe 20 that always sneaks you extra desserts on your hospital dinner trays, and even let you have a pop not too long ago, for which you will be eternally grateful), she gasps when she finally rounds your bed and catches sight of the large man still laying on the floor in the fetal position and groaning rather loudly.

"Tabitha", you say with a smile as you look up from the book you opened to read as you enjoyed Dr. Timothy's anguish, "could you ask Dr. Chakwas to get me a new plastic surgeon please?"

Urdnot Wrex - or, as he will happily correct you many _many_ times, _Councilor_ Urdnot Wrex - came in a few hours later. He barged into your room in true krogan fashion, paying no attention to the guards outside that tried to stop him, but stopped _dead_ in his tracks when his eyes met yours. You were sitting up, reading some rather humorous extranet articles speculating what happened to you after the destruction of the Citadel (there's an entire website devoted to the theory that you never really existed, and were just an image created by the Alliance to boost morale – you bookmark it to show Garrus later, figuring that the two of you will get quite the laugh out of it), while he regarded you with almost disbelief for quite sometime.

"Shepard", he says stoically. You simply smirk and raise an eyebrow at him, because it's so very familiar. And like you're said before, and will undoubtedly say again – familiar is all you really want right now.

"Wrex."

He takes a step forward and rounds the bed to stand where Dr. Timothy was whining not too long ago, a smile playing at the corner of his lips, and it's almost laughable to think that you would have ever been _friends_ with a _krogan_ (as a young green ensign of barely 18 years old, you had gotten the proverbial _and_ literal shit kicked out of you by an angry krogan you had run across on a supply drop to Tuchanka; as a spacer kid that grew up around humans with ideals that would make The Illusive Man proud, you had picked up a few bad habits when it came to talking to aliens – needless to say, this particular krogan did not appreciate it).

"Chakwas told me you're causing trouble up here."

You shrug. He laughs, full and hearty, before leaning forward to headbutt you as lightly as you are sure he can muster – it still hurts, just a little bit, but you don't say anything. In fact, you grab a hold of either side of his large head and return the action yourself. When he straightens up he's laughing again, and this time you join him.

"Glad to see you're still yourself, Shepard."


	9. Chapter 9: Show Me Yours

Alright. So this was mostly filler to lead us up to the next few chapters because wow, it's almost 10 chapters in and maybe I should get to the main story yeah? OH FINE~.

I'm going to go drown myself in my Garrus feels, finish this ridiculous Renegade playthrough, and then force myself to finish writing the next 2 chapters. I will try to post them by the week. In the meantime, here ya go.

* * *

On the three week anniversary of your wakening, Dr. Michel had apparently drawn the short straw and earned the unfortunate duty of informing you that your team of doctors had decided that you were healthy enough for them to resume surgery – they had all agreed, upon your waking up, to postpone anything that was previously planned as to not upset your fragile and at the time entirely unstable state. But now, three weeks later with no complications (save for the fractured wrist you gave yourself when when you struck Dr. Timothy a fortnight ago), they had reinstated your suspended surgery schedule. It's early in the morning when she slinks into your room and wakes you from your restless sleep with little more than the distinct sound of her heels on the tile, far too early to be hit with what you could only assume at the time was going to be some bad news – you see the beginnings of sunlight starting to filter in through the slits in your curtains and here the 'good morning's from the various birds that have taken up in the trees outside your window. The peaceful scene does nothing to alleviate your instantly bad mood.

"There aren't many more", she tries to reassure you as she pulls out a neatly typed memorandum with the schedule printed on it. You glance at it skeptically when she hands it to you and don't even bother to read it when you notice it takes up more than half of the page, instead groaning as you deposit the sheet onto the table at your bedside to join the books you're sick of reading and the datapad you've used to search what you are sure is every site the extranet has to offer – you _really_ need to get out of this bed soon, lest you die of simple boredom. "If it makes you feel any better, Commander, we have you scheduled for a surgery in just a few hours."

You raise an eyebrow at her. "And why would that make me feel _better_, exactly?"

"Because", the doctor drags out as she leans forward and places a comforting hand on your shoulder – her perfume seems to surround you, and you actually hear rather than feel yourself gulp as she inches closer to you, "after we fit you for external fixators for your legs, you will be able to _walk_."

All thoughts of the beautiful French doctor with the intoxicating perfume and the bright green eyes, with an accent that makes your mouth go dry and your mind draw blanks, and of the way Liara would simply make fun of you for acting like a flustered and inexperienced teenager with a crush whenever she is around, go out the proverbial window as soon as the words hit your ears.

"_Walk_? Like, get up out of this bed and actually _walk _walk? On my own?"

"Well, yes _and_ no." You groan, defeated, and Dr. Michele just smiles with the hand still on your shoulder offering a small squeeze. "You will be able to walk short distances, with the assistance of crutches; we actually will add a small amount of walking to your physical therapy. With the external fixators in place, putting a little weight on the bones and exercising the muscles around them will allow them to set properly and, hopefully, heal a little more quickly."

"So", you dare to question, doing what you can to keep yourself level-headed lest you just end up disappointed, "I _will_ be able to walk. Not a lot... but... _walk_. Me, out of this bed, moving my legs? Walking?"

Dr. Michel's soft chuckles are cut short by a throat clearing in the doorway, and you both look up in search of the unexpected early visitor – you are happy to see Garrus leaning against the doorway in full armor, obviously either just heading out to or returning from a mission of his own. You are instantly filled with envy at the sight of the heavy armor he's sporting, missing the feel of the familiar metal as it rests on your shoulders and chest. (You begin to wonder if you could convince either Karin or Chloe to let you wear your own armor during these short walks you are being promised, but can already assume that the answer is going to be a clear and definitive _no_.)

"Are we planning your escape then, Shepard?" You smile broadly at your old friend as he pushes off of the doorway and makes his way towards you with a smile of his own. "Good morning, Chloe. So does this mean we can finally put this bag of bones to use soon or does she get to continue laying around?"

"_Soon_", Dr. Michel assures, probably more so for your benefit than for Garrus', "after today's surgery I will be able to give you a more accurate time frame. Rest up, Commander, I will return in about an hour."

The doctor quietly excuses herself with another soft squeeze to your shoulder and a kiss to one of Garrus' cheeks (you have to remind yourself that the two of them go way back; before Garrus had joined your squad on the SR-1, he and Dr. Michel had both worked in the Wards on the Citadel and had apparently become somewhat friendly during their time there – you like to constantly probe him, asking if his relationship with her was ever more than friendly, to which he always sidesteps the questions and changes the subject before you can embarrass him further). Garrus takes a seat on the bed next to you, careful not to accidentally land on one of your legs with his heavy armor on. As he slowly lowers himself he catches you staring a little intensely at the pistol tightly holsters to his side and can't help but chuckle.

"You know", you snap your eyes up, his voice startling you a little more than you would like to admit, "if you stop demasculinizing your doctors and complaining about the surgeries that you know you _need_, maybe you'd be able to get your own armor and ship and guns back and stop letting me run around to clean up all these messes."

"Messes?", you say eagerly; you won't admit it to anyone, even Garrus and especially yourself, but you are actually nervous about the many surgeries that you have to look forward in the following weeks. Hearing about what you are missing out there in the galaxy might be enough to distract you, even if you are mostly using your abhorrent amount of jealousy to do so. "Tell me everything."

"Oh, it's nothing. Taking care of a few rebels and Terra Firma troublemakers. After the Reapers, I think that general peacekeeping like this is probably beneath you anyways."

You grumble, low in your throat, and cross your arms over your chest – Garrus chuckles again at your expense, never one to turn down the chance to poke fun at you (especially knowing that you would never turn down a chance to do the same to him).

"You're that jealous, huh?"

You nod immediately, eyes shooting back down to his pistol.

"Is that the new Paladin?", you ask a little breathlessly. He nods with a glint in his eye, and the envy aching in your chest increases tenfold. "I read about it online and... _wait_... Is that a high caliber barrel?" Another nod. "_And_ a melee stunner?" He laughs as he nods this time, and you practically whimper. "Can I hold it?"

"You're _kidding_."

"Garrus! _Please_?" When he doesn't budge, you huff childishly and decide to take a different approach. "I'm going into _surgery_ soon. I could _die_. And my last wish is to hold your gun."

"Really, Shepard? It's_ leg _surgery. Not Cerberus reconstruction. I think you'll be fine."

"And if I'm not?", you challenge with a quirked eyebrow, knowing from the twitch in his eye that you've won. Sure, guilting your best friend over your seemingly frequent bouts of death was probably a little underhanded for someone such as yourself. But you _really_ want to hold that pistol. (You swallow down the fact that you are _terrified_ of the prospect of being put under; you seem to have a very difficult time staying alive, all jokes aside, and the nagging thought that Liara would absolutely bring you back to life and kill you _herself_ if you dared to perish over something as simple as a leg surgery is enough to cause a knot to tie in your stomach.)

Slowly, hesitantly, he pulls the pistol from it's secure place on his hip and extends it towards your greedy outstretched hands. He stops just short however, and pulls back to eject the thermal clip before finally placing it in your palms – you raise an eyebrow at him in question, to which he shrugs.

"What if that plastic surgeon walks in?"

You have to laugh at that – perhaps he was on to something after all. Better safe than in prison.

"I don't know why that makes me think of this but... Oh hell, what was it that Kaiden said?" Garrus says as you turn the heavy pistol over in your hands; it's similar to the Paladin you used to carry, maybe a little slimmer, with the exception of being much better balanced and, you can only assume as a result of said balance, more than likely more accurate. The high caliber barrel and melee stunner Garrus had attached to his weapon appear to be brand new, still glinting as the brushed metal caught the first stray beams of morning sunlight that reached your bed. "'A big gun will get you through a lot in life'?"

"A big gun _and_ a confident attitude", you correct with a smile as you remember Kaiden Alenko's ridiculous capacity for optimism. Looking back on the time you spent with the young marine, you wonder how much of an impact his almost annoyingly upbeat attitude would have had on your own. "He was right, you know. A big gun, confidence, and an angry turian rebel. What else would anyone need to save the galaxy?"

Garrus smiled, and though you could see the unmistakable pull of sadness behind his eyes, you decided to leave it alone. Without a doubt, everything that had happened after the Reaper attack on Palaven, your decent on Earth, and every single moment that lead to this seemingly peaceful one had left it's mark on your old friend – if and when he was ready to talk about it, you silently promise him a night filled with reminiscing and alcohol. A _lot_ of alcohol.

He shakes his head (you recognize the action as something you frequently do yourself to push less than pleasant feelings or memories down to deal with later, or hopefully never) and raises a large gloved hand to playful jab at your shoulder.

"There's no Shepard without Vakarian, right?"


	10. Chapter 10: Tabloid Journalism

I worked 80 hours this week akjhdkshdkfaslda sgasgafg goodbye~.  
*goes to sleep for 9049034 hours*

(side bar I spent_ a lot_ of time in external fixators when I was younger and I just want to point out that they absolutely suck and I actually feel bad that femshep is wearing them - walking or not, they're heavy and painful and they leave shitty scars... not that femshep is probably overtly worried about that... blah whatever I'm really going to go to bed now, I hope you all enjoy this :D)

* * *

The first time you get out of bed is on an early Tuesday morning, two days after Dr. Michel and your team of medical professionals finally fitted you with an external fixator on each of your legs; the metal contraptions drilled straight into the fragile bones below your knees are painless, if at all a little bit of an eye-sore, and Joker has taken full advantage of your still bed-ridden state by poking fun at you over the fact that you are _finally_ the most crippled member of the team. The Alliance soldier posted outside your room (you wondered, up until that day, why on earth you even need a permanent guard detail) poked his head in not later than 7 a.m. to say he was going to run to the coffee place in the cafeteria downstairs, and asked if you wanted anything – you ignored Dr. Michel's direct orders to not drink any and ask for a latte anyways. The young man, smiling, happy, a lot like Jenkins (you thought momentarily, upon meeting him, that you were forever cursed to seeing the faces of those that died in your command – most people would have been afraid of a notion like that, but to you it was somehow comforting), nodded then stepped back out into the hallway, closing the door behind him. You were engrossed in an email from Miranda, who had recently returned to Illium with Jack (which, to be honest, you were still in a state of shock over – a little over a year ago they were ready to redecorate Miranda's cabin with each other's insides, and now they're living a life of luxury on Illium and, if the rumors are to believed, shagging in literally every place they can), when you heard the door creak open – eager to accept your forbidden latte, you throw the datapad down and look up only to be met with a camera hovering in your face. Your first thought is 'Allers has _finally_ found a way to literally attach that thing to her waist', and you are even ready to rib the young reporter over it, when the camera moves suddenly to reveal none other than freaking Khalisah Bint Sinan al-Jilani.

_Shit_.

"Commander", she says condescendingly, a twinkle in her eyes as if she already knows both of your legs are more or less made of glass, "how lovely to see you again."

You glare at her, the hand you had under the blanket searching desperately for the 'call nurse' button (you pray that, if you happen to find it, they disregard all the times you called someone in to do something as mundane as reach the datapad that's just out of your reach, or change that channel on the television, or even just listen to your long list of complains – this would be the worst case of 'the Commander who cried wolf' that you can think of); you don't find it, however, so you settle for intensifying your glare by threateningly crossing your arms over your chest.

"Bite me, al-Jilani."

She widens her smile ever so slightly, clearly unfazed by your truly sad attempt at a come back, and slowly saunters across the room and rounds your bed. The reporter grabs the chair that has remained at your bedside since you had woken up and drags it just slightly out of your reach (which is probably the smartest thing you have ever seen her do) before taking a seat; her camera follows her example, settling at eye level just past your knees.

"Humanity has some questions for you, Commander Shepard."

You huff, blowing a loose strand of red hair out of your eyes. "Of _course_ they do."

"Let me begin by saying that the galaxy as a whole appreciates what you did for us when you brought down the reapers – without your valiant effort and sacrifices in the face of overwhelming odds, we would be little more than dust right now."

The sincerity in her voice throws you off, causing you to swallow the vulgar response you already had planned – the Khalisah you remember was a slanderous and generally completely rude reporter that, despite your very best efforts to always do the right thing for everyone involved, had received the business end of your fist on more than one occasion. You shrug and look away suddenly, trying to focus your eyes on anything but the camera that is still mere inches from your face.

"Uh... thank you...?"

"That being said, Commander... I have some questions about the company that you chose to keep on your many expeditions in your effort to stop the reapers."

"The _company_ I kept...?", you ask, knitting your eyebrows together in confusion. "My team? They were good people, the ones that we are lucky enough to still have with us still _are_ – many of them died helping me to stop Saren, destroy the Collector base, stop Cerberus, and of course the reapers. Without each and every single one of them, we wouldn't have succeeded. Without every single one of them, I would have failed before I even started. That's a fact."

"We commend your efforts, Commander, really, we do. But you were surrounded by some... questionable characters the past few years. Humanity is starting to wonder – now that the reaper threat is gone, you're going to be falling into a lot of very well deserved power. But, will you use that power to advance the well-being of humans? Or will you use it to aid your collection of rag-tag criminals, and down right terrorists?"

"Criminals? _Terrorists_?", you shake your head. "What the _hell_ are you talking about, al-Jilani...? The people I surrounded myself with, the people I _still_ surround myself with, were handpicked because they were the best. Because they were the best the galaxy had to offer and the only team I would have ever wanted by my side."

"The '_best team_'? A thief? A mercenary? A convict? And those are just the _humans_, Commander! Viewers would be interested to find out that you surrounded yourself with even more dangerous _aliens_, like drell assassins, and genetically engineered super-krogan. How about the _geth_ unit your team joined up with on multiple occasions? Must have been a tense ship, considering you had a _quarian_ on board that was at one point accused of being a _traitor _of the Flotilla. Or how about the_ turian_ ex C-Sec officer turned mercenary killing off innocent humans on Omega? And while we're talking about Omega, Commander, do you care to comment on your friendship with the self-proclaimed Queen of the station, galaxy-renowned drug and weapons dealer, wanted murder, crime lord, and ex-asari commando Aria T'Loak?"

"You're kidding right?", your eyebrows shoot up into your hairline, more out of surprise than anger, though you can't say that you are entirely happy with the picture the reporter is painting of a group of people that saved the galaxy on multiple occasions – a group of people that is entirely made up of individuals you call your friends, who you would give your life for in an instant and who would do the same to you. "Because you have _got_ to be kidding. These people saved our lives – saved _your _life!"

al-Jilani has no intention of answering your questions, however, and continues talking over your incredulous response of her rant.

"But I suppose you make a _habit_ out of befriending dangerous asaris, don't you Commander Shepard? You've been in league with Matriarch Benezia's own daughters for _years_ now – the daughter of the woman that helped Saren, the rogue turian Spectre, betray the council and almost brought about the destruction of the Citadel."

"That was _Benezia_", you practically spit at her, the lid you had over your normally well controlled temper beginning to loosen at the brash accusations being suddenly brought against Liara based solely on the actions of her indoctrinated mother, "not _Liara_. Liara had nothing to do with any of that; she was at _my_ side, fighting with _me_ through every battle. She was forced to kill her own _mother_ when Saren and the reapers indoctrinated her. So don't you _dare_ bring her in to this, al-Jilani."

"Are you defending her because she's honestly not a threat? Or because, as rumors have it, you're sleeping together?"

"_What_?"

"You know that when an asari melds with you they can reach into the deepest parts of your mind and learn all of your darkest and most hidden secrets? Whose to say she won't use that power to unveil classified Alliance or Council information to gain an advantage of humanity? Better yet, who's to say that your Dr. T'Soni isn't using her strange alien sex appeal to get in your head and manipulate you? Are you _indoctrinated_ by her, Commander Shepard?"

As quickly as you can without jarring your apparently perpetually sore muscles, you throw the covers off of yourself to reveal to her the large metal structures holding your fragile legs together. The reporter, despite her previous confidence, twitches her eye at the sight of exactly what you had given up to save even her sorry ass; she doesn't falter though, keeping her chin held high as she attempts to avoid looking at the metal rings and rods keeping your scarred and discolored extremities in place.

"God damn it. You're going to regret this, al-Jilani", you mutter as you painfully drag your heavy legs across the mattress and swing them over the edge of the bed (mentally, you tack on that you are definitely going to regret this more than she will – Dr. Michel said that you would need a few days to adjust to the set-up before you should put weight on them – but you hope that you can at least get one good swing in before you crumble down into a pile of your own shattered glass limbs). The reporter, upon seeing that you are _really_ going to get out of the bed and presumably punish her physically for her wildly inappropriate line of questioning, immediately gets up off the chair and takes a few steps back to the foot of the bed to stare at you in complete disbelief. "Really, _really_ regret it."

As you place weight on your feet for the first time in over a year and stand up off of the bed, you actually _feel _the atrophy in your thighs begin to make the muscles quake under the strain. You don't let up, however, determined to reach the gawking reporter still standing just at the end of the bed; using your left arm to steady yourself against the mattress itself, you take your first step towards her. And when you don't crumple to floor, or hear the very distinct sound of snapping bones, you taking another. And then another.

You are just about to reach the frozen woman, your right hand already balled up tightly into a fist with every intention of it meeting squarely with her jaw when a blinding light suddenly fills the small room, causing both al-Jilani and yourself to yelp, and resulting in you losing your footing and falling against the bed before landing with a soft thud on the floor next to it. When your vision finally clears, the bright spots dissipating, you are shocked to see the reporter floating several feet off the ground in what appears to be a tightly controlled singularity – the purple swirl of light is causing the woman to spin slowly, and if you weren't in such shock yourself you would have attempted to get a picture to capture the truly priceless expression she is wearing.

"Well", says a voice like velvet from somewhere near the doorway; you strain your eyes to see despite the blinding light still obstructing your view, but can only make out heavy white boots standing squarely just within the threshold, "Khalisah, I think it's time you left the Commander alone."

As soon as the sentence ends, Khalisah is rejected from the small field and falls so roughly on her head and neck that even you have to wince for her as you struggle to pull yourself up to sit down on the bed. Without the body floating midair, and with the added height that sitting on the bed offers you, you can actually see the mysterious figure with the voice like heaven that probably just did both Khalisah and yourself a huge favor – standing in the doorway is none of than Liara T'Soni, biting back a smile as she regards the reporter groaning on the floor with what can only be described as a twinkle in her eye.

"Don't _you_?"


	11. Chapter 11: What I can give

Ouch.

This_ hurt_.

* * *

An absolutely _terrified _(and quite possibly concussed) Khalisah Bint Sinan al-Jilani drags herself to her feet as quickly as possible, attempting to stagger past Liara and out of your room before any more damage is done. She stops her as she reaches her in the doorway, however, Liara still blocking her exit, and the human looks at up at her wide-eyed.

"Please", she whispers as she bites back tears, bringing a hand up to rub her undoubtedly sore neck, "just let me leave. I won't tell anyone _anything_. This _never _happened."

Liara smirks as she regards Khalisah with an eyebrow raised, and through your shock you feel you heart skip a beat – if it wasn't for the completely outrageous scene that just played out in front of you, and the subsequent loss of words, you would have cried out in excitement as soon as you knew it was indeed Liara's taut form filling your doorway. If you could pick your jaw up off the floor, you might still do that. The singularity blocking the majority of your view finally fades, and you get your first good look at the beautiful asari standing across the room from you; her blue eyes are sparking just the way that you remember, the quirk of her full lips causing you to twitch your own into a small smile. She's wearing _armor_, you truly notice for the first time, sleek and white with a SMG still tethered tightly to her hip, and though it's odd to see her covered in the heavy metal plating littered with a symbol you don't recognize, you have to admit that she looks amazing (then again, when _doesn't _she?).

Finally, Liara nods and takes a slow step out of the doorway, and the reporter sighs in relief as she scuttles out of the door. Without so much as a word, or even breaking her stride as she makes her way over to your bed, Liara raises her omni-tool and presumably wipes the contents of the floating camera as it passes her. (_al-Jilani is going to be pissed_, you think to yourself. _Good_.)

"For someone who's condition is supposedly classified, she got in her rather easily", your smiling despite the hint of annoyance in your voice, finding it rather difficult to focus on anything other than the quirk in Liara's lips and the way her hips sway as she makes her way over to you.

"She's been camped outside the hospital for months", Liara responds with a smile on her face similar to your own. "I'm sure she noticed the increase in visits from your crew and put two and two together, so to speak."

When Liara finally makes her way to the bedside (it felt like _years_ to you, though you are sure it was merely minutes, if even that) the two of you don't speak, instead just looking into each other's eyes – without words, you can somehow feel all of the things that she wants to say to you, and hope that she can feel the same coming from you.

_I love you.  
I missed you.  
__**God**__, I missed you.  
I'm better now, look.  
I'm __**definitely**__ better now.  
I'm not dead, this didn't kill me.  
Not even the __**reapers**__ could take me from you._

We can finally just

_**be together**__._

A startled 'oh!' comes from the doorway, causing you to reluctantly tear your gaze away from away from a still-smiling Liara.

"I'm sorry", Dr. Chakwas says with a smile as she quickly strides over to the asari and engulfs her in a large hug, "I had no idea you were here, Liara! Welcome back."

"I just got here actually. I'm sorry, I was on business and didn't have much access to my personal messages... which I had quite a few of, it turns out." Liara turns to smile at you over her shoulder, an action you happily return.

"And with good reason!"

"The best reason", Liara says quietly with a wink before turning away to address the doctor directly. "Do you need a moment? You looked like you had something to do, Dr. Chakwas."

Karin shrugs, pulling a small bag out from behind her back.

"I was just coming in to change Shepard's hospital gown. Though, I suppose if you're here... would you like me to leave you two do it? I'm sure the Commander is sick of me by now."

"I could never be sick of you, doc", you offer her a toothy grin. "But if you've got stuff to do, I'm sure Liara and I could figure it out. No promises though."

"Absolutely", Liara agrees, extending a hand and accepting the small bag, with you assume holds a fresh hospital gown within. "I'm sure you're quite busy here, Dr. Chakwas. My sources say you've taken over the Intensive Care Unit recently – congratulations."

"Oh my. That was just the other day! Your sources work rather quickly, Liara." You stifle a laugh. "It's not quite the same excitement as working on the Normandy, but soldiers Earth-side seem to be needing me a little more these days."

Dr. Chakwas excuses herself shortly after, shutting the door behind her as she makes her way down the hall to perform her rounds of whatever it is that the poor doctor runs herself ragged with. Liara tosses the bag carelessly to the foot of the bed and sits down of the edge next to you, causing the metal frame to creak loudly at the added weight. She immediately makes to stand again, muttering 'oh goddess' under her breath as she does so, but you bring a hand up to pull her back down before she can right herself completely.

"If it can hold Garrus in his armor, or _Wrex _in_ his_, it can definitely hold you and yours."

Liara shakes her head dismissively, a light blush covering her cheeks. "I'm just not used to wearing it, I suppose – I feel as I weigh enough to break about anything I sit on while I'm in it."

Slowly, you bring up a finger to trace over the red three-point symbol that adorns the shoulder closest to you. It's on both sides, you notice, as well as on the chest of the armor.

"What is this?", you say quietly as you continue you task, tracing the symbol over and over. It seems familiar, but you can't put a finger (hah) on where on Earth you recognize it from. "Don't tell me you and Ash got roped up working for mercs while I was out, Liara."

She only stares down at you with her brow knit together, despite your best efforts to make the statement sound light-hearted. When she fails to answer after several seconds, you cease your tracing and look up at her.

"You don't remember?"

"No...", you drag out with an eyebrow raised. "Why? What is it?"

"It's the symbol for the Shadow Broker, Shepard. All of the agents wear it on their armor."

"Oh... wait, but... _you're_ the..."

"Yes."

"But... huh. So why are _you_ wearing _your agents'_ armor?"

She actually _laughs_ at that before grabbing the hand that had stilled on her shoulder and pulling it into her lap. She begins tracing over the veins and bones and sinews that are visible through the thin skin on the back of your hand, carefully watching her own actions when she speaks.

"Sometimes I forget how much you've missed this past year, Shepard... There was a mission in the Terminus that I wanted to oversee personally; someone had double-crossed me and we needed to apprehend him before he sold the information to what's left of the batarians and began a galactic conflict. To them I was just another operative. Ashley of course had to wear a full-face helmet the entire time to hide her identity – after becoming the second human Spectre she is almost as recognizable as _you_. She and Garrus insisted that I bring her along, however, swearing up and down that you would never let them live it down if something happened to me."

You smile at her again, offering her gloved hand a tight squeeze, though you're sure she can't rightfully feel it through the material.

"They were right."

Liara shakes her head, smiling, before turning her attention to the ignored hospital gown still sitting next to her at the foot of the bed. You groan as she picks it up.

"What do you say we continue with conversation when you're wearing something_ clean_?"

Biting back your arguments, you help her with the knots holding the gown together, undoing the two on either side of your chest and the one on each shoulder while she undoes the ones that lie close to either of your hips. You screw your eyes shut tightly as she carefully pulls the thin hospital gown out from under you, more embarrassed than you'd like to admit – of course, you are happy Liara is here. _Finally_. And that Dr. Chakwas had the keen awareness to realize that both you and Liara would appreciate being able to share a few moments alone, even if it was for something as mundane as changing your dingy hospital gown to an equally-dingy but at least_ clean_ one.

But you were _really_ not getting any enjoyment out of it.

"You know", you croak out without opening your eyes, "I was hoping that the first time you saw me naked again I'd be a _little_ more able-bodied. Or at least able to _walk _on my own. Maybe have a few more teeth. Maybe even able to pick you up and run out the doors to make our glorious escape."

Liara doesn't answer you, and though the thought worries you (_who knows what I look like_, you think bitterly to yourself, remembering how the plane of your skin had looked before your attempt to reclaim Earth and worrying yourself even further on how it must look now), you refuse to open your eyes. That is until you feel a soft brush of lips against your own – it's so soft and fast that you hardly have time to kiss back, but all thoughts of doing so are erased from your mind when you feel the same airy brush of lips placed to your right temple. Then again to the bridge of your nose, followed by your left cheek. The soft kisses continue in their descent, marking along the left side of your jaw then down your neck to the small dip between your collarbones. Slowly, you open your eyes as you feel the feather-light touches travel in a jagged line down your breastbone. As you open them, and your vision focuses, you suck in a shallow breath.

With tears running down her own cheeks, Liara is gently and silently offering a soft kiss to every single scar on your body, old and new. You bring a hand up to run a finger over the slightly raised scar that runs from your right temple, thickens across the bridge of your nose, and to your left cheek, and the one that runs along the length of the left half of your jaw. You run your fingers over your lower lip, which is still tingling from the too-soft kiss Liara had placed there, and feel the fault of a scar that bisects the soft flesh there (later, when you have time and energy to find humor in it, you will compare yourself to Tevos, the asari councilor, and spend far too many hours laughing to yourself over the resemblance). These are all new scars, ones that you were blissfully unaware of until Liara's lips ghosted over them. You follow the path of Liara's kisses, over the light scar that starts at your pulse point and runs to the center of your collarbones (_this scar is old_, you think, remembering how you had taken some shrapnel to your foolishly uncovered neck and head while fighting the threshermaw with Grunt on Tuchunka) and the wide angry-looking scar that runs almost the full length of your breastbone (_this is new_, you think sourly as you look down at it, at least finding some relief in the strong heartbeat that pounds back against your fingers and knowing that this particular scar played a huge part in bringing that determined beating back to you).

The asari had stopped her own movements when she noticed your hand, still perched anxiously on the edge of your bed, and you catch her deep blue eyes with your own. Bringing a hand up to brush a lone tear off of her cheek, you awkwardly clear your throat.

"Don't stop", you say as you fight back your own tears, your voice cracking in your throat. There wasn't anything remotely sexual about the act, regardless of the fact that you are naked, though it was easily one of the most intimate the two of you had ever shared. Even if Liara's lips couldn't fade all your scars, just feeling them pressed against the angry reminders of your past remind both of you that they were earned so that both of you could share a future – a future that may actually be possible now, white picket fence and little blue children and all. "Please."

She only falters for a second, leaning a little harder into the now-soft skin of you palm before continuing to update her map on the expanse of skin she has come to know so well. She litters the large scar on your right side with kisses (_a geth plasma shotgun on Ilos_, you remember), the long thin white line that runs between your hipbones (_a too-close encounter with the end of Kai Lang's sword_, the name still bitter in your mouth), and the discolored patch of skin on one of your upper thighs (the result of a skin graft after a rather direct hit from a Collector's particle beam), before readjusting to kiss every single reminder of a scratch, fall, burn, gunshot or bite that cover your upper chest and each of your arms – there are many of them, ranging from your _many_ recently-acquired battle scars from the last stand on Earth to your young days as an overzealous officer that thought going out in cheap armor or no armor at all with the bare minimum in weaponry would prove something to your superiors.

_Which it did_, you think to yourself as lips brush against the reminder of a varren bite on your right shoulder. _That I was a dumb kid with a lot to learn. I kind of still feel like I am._

Liara stands suddenly, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hands, and you gear up to protest until she silently motions for you to scoot over. The hospital bed doesn't allow a lot of room for maneuvering, and the external fixators made it rather difficult to move your legs while laying down, but you hoist yourself up and move as close to one side as you could as to accommodate Liara. She slowly lays down next to you with her head on your chest, sure not to jostle you in any way, and slings a leg carefully over your midsection once she is sure that it wouldn't hurt you at all.

As she settles into you fully now, the tears feeling like lava as they hit your bare chest, your first instinct is a selfish one – it always is when Liara is crying, it always has been. And not selfish in a brutish way, nor a cruel one, of course not, but the facts are that you know this woman _so_ well; when she is hurting like this, when she is in such emotional turmoil that the cool mask of confidence slips just a hair, she doesn't need someone to coddle her. Hell, she doesn't _want_ that. She wants to process the emotion, catalog it away with all that other knowledge she somehow fits into that pretty head of hers, and save it as fuel to fight another day. To win another battle. But like you said, you're selfish – you want to pull her close, wrap her in your arms, whisper reassurances in her ear, and hope that the words wash away all of her worries. Because if she's in your arms, she's safe – physically, at least. Jane Shepard, the woman, has a hard time accepting that as enough. But the soldier in you, _Commander_ Shepard, is happy to do just that. If you can't keep her from hurting over things like this, things that can't be cured with a bullet between the eyes or a well-placed biotic attack, at least you can keep her safe in other ways (like with those bullets, or well-placed biotic attacks).

Your injuries are a blessing just this once, you think to yourself, and use every bit of strength you have left to silently drag your better arm to cover her shoulders and rest softly on the cool plating covering her bicep. It is the least you can do, the most you can offer, and right now, the most she will accept.


End file.
